


They Will Try To Steal My Soul (as if i had a soul to steal)

by FuryBeam136



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, akechi dies the fic, no seriously thats it thats the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:15:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29933961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FuryBeam136/pseuds/FuryBeam136
Summary: The world is collapsing around him.But it’s fine, really. He deserves this anyway. Death was always going to come for him one way or another, he thinks, letting his head fall heavily against the steel of the door. His chest burns where a bullet has torn through it, and the adrenaline has worn off, and all he knows is that this is where he dies. This is his end.Is it worth it? Is what he’s done really worth dying for?No, he realizes, it isn’t.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	They Will Try To Steal My Soul (as if i had a soul to steal)

The world is collapsing around him.

But it’s fine, really. He deserves this anyway. Death was always going to come for him one way or another, he thinks, letting his head fall heavily against the steel of the door. His chest burns where a bullet has torn through it, and the adrenaline has worn off, and all he knows is that this is where he dies. This is his end.

Is it worth it? Is what he’s done really worth dying for?

No, he realizes, it isn’t.

Too late now. The world smears out of focus, blurs and smears, and all it is is _pain_ and he wants it gone but at the same time-

He doesn’t want to die.

The realization hits him harder than the bullet in his chest, harder than anything else ever has. The ground below him feels so far away. His head hits something, the ground? He thinks it must be the ground, but the world is so hard to understand right now, and the only thing that comes through clearly beyond the pain is the _fear._ It’s pathetic and he hates it but he’s so afraid, he’s _terrified_ , he _doesn’t want to die._

He thinks he tries to say something, but words escape him, and the only thing that comes out is a strangled, choked sob that claws its way out of his chest and up through his throat, burning the whole way. It hurts to cry, it hurts so much, but his body is so far away from his control now, distanced from his mind by the haze of pain and panic. He thinks he hears someone calling his name. He thinks he hears something strike the steel from the other side. It doesn’t matter, not really. The sobs shake his body and it hurts so much and somehow, he can’t help but laugh.

He laughs like a madman, and maybe he is a madman. He gasps, chokes, coughs out a word, a name, a plea. And he knows that the person the name belongs to is on the other side of a wall he himself put there. He knows that the name’s owner will not come for him, will not hold him close and reassure him and press a hand to his cheek to wipe away the tears and whisper to him that everything is going to be okay. No one has ever done that for him. No one ever will do that for him. Still, he coughs up the name, again, again, until his throat closes up and the pain, the pain, it hurts so much, why can’t he just die already, why can’t he just _live?_

He was never going to live much longer than this anyway.

He thinks he hears the voice he so desperately longed to hear. He thinks he hears them call his name. He thinks he hears them promise something. And he laughs, and he laughs, because no one has ever kept promises made to him. No one has ever meant it when they told him they would stay. But that voice, that voice screams with raw feeling, and for a moment, he almost wants to believe it when it tells him that they’re going to get him out of here. He almost wants to believe that he can survive this.

Instead, he closes his eyes, not that they could make much out to begin with. If he dies here, at least he died for something.

What is he dying for?

He can’t seem to remember.

Something behind him shifts, and warm hands cup his head, he feels himself being pressed into a soft body, warm, inviting, gentle. He is held like a child in these arms and he doesn’t have the energy to fight it, to lean into it, to- what does he even want to do? He doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter.

He doesn’t know who’s holding him. He can’t remember. But they’re soft, and they’re kind, and their fingers brush away his tears, their voice vibrates in his bones and chases away the pain for these last, brief moments.

“I’m sorry,” he hears them whisper.

He can’t seem to think of anything they would have to apologize for.


End file.
